


Foreigner’s God

by NotVeryLikely



Category: Good Omens
Genre: Alternate Universe - Role Reversal, Caín and able times, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Ineffable Wives (Good Omens), They’re lesbians Harold, a bit of violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-22 20:55:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23233615
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NotVeryLikely/pseuds/NotVeryLikely
Summary: An angel who lost her faith and a demon desperately trying to repent can’t seem to stay out of orbit, certainly not at the dawning of this strange new earth. Raphael wants nothing more than to heal the suffering she sees, Azirafell wants nothing more than for the suffering to just stop.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 15





	1. since some liar brought the thunder

**Author's Note:**

> Hey gamers there’s some violence stuff so hopefully that’s not too much of an issue, but it’s overall a pretty sappy story. Also, your reading experience will be greatly enhanced if you know about the biblical story of Cain and Able :)

The world was young, painfully young, and aching with the spill of first blood. Fresh blood. It seeped deep, deep into the bowels of the barren desert, pallid sands drinking up Able’s blood like a parched man, dying of thirst. In a way, it was.

_Azirafell was fucked._

She didn’t necessarily _like_ children, per se. She was a demon, one of the fallen, she didn’t like much of anything. Still. Cain, Able, Awan, Seth, Azura (Azirafell had nothing to do with that name. She wondered, distantly, if an angel with robes of fire did. Probably not.), Aclima. They were so young, so painfully bloody young. The eldest daughter Awan, a girl of maybe fourteen years, was already saddled with raising her brothers, with covering her hair, with cleaning and cooking and praying to a God she never even had the chance to forsake. And no, Azirafell could never quite go up to the family, couldn’t bring herself to face God’s chosen creation, couldn’t bring herself to smile at the baby (so young, and too small) with her pretty blue eyes, or sing, or tell them a story of a far away city with too many rules and too few mercies. But she could send them simple miracles, she had sent them little things- a mother cow produced a fatty calf, a jug of wine was miraculously refilled, a tattered dress was so easily mended, its owner could barely remember beginning to sew it. Little things.

She hadn’t meant to cause _this_. She hadn’t meant for her infernal, evil, disgusting energy to… to permeate their little family like this. She had just wanted to see the crops, the ones to be burnt as offerings. She didn’t mean to kill them- though surely, it was her fault.

_It was all her fault, if you looked closely enough._

Cain’s sacrifices were deemed unworthy, and Able’s were not. Cain had a rock, sharp and heavy and devastating, and Able did not. There was a roar of fury, and a crack of thunder, and then Hell had secured it’s first, freshest soul.

Azirafell would probably receive a blue ribbon for this one. Red ribbon, more likely. More fitting, at least.


	2. when the land was godless and free

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azirafell is hurt, in more ways than one.

_**always a well-dressed fraud** _

Contrary to what the Bible may tell you, God didn’t mark Cain. An angel did- an honest-to-goodness, hide-the-kids, wheel-of-fire angel came down from the heavens, marking Cain’s very soul. Angels are uppity creatures- once they get out, once they get to expel all the potential divinity that’s been simmering inside them, threatening to boil over at any given moment- they tend to stay out. And Azirafell? She was hiding in a tree. The tree was tall and flat and made a dull thwack when struck. She was too high to jump down, but too low to feel safe from the angel on a power rush. Biting her cheek enough to draw blood, the folded her hands in some semblance of benediction.

The problem with being a demon is that you have no God left to pray to. 

She prayed anyways- not in search of the mercy of forgiveness, but maybe, just maybe, the mercy of a quick death. Please. Lord. She could feel an angel, nearby- the air was sharp and acrid to breathe, it was a wonder Able’s siblings weren’t choking on the stench of bleach and ozone- though perhaps it wasn’t the type of stench humans could smell. It wasn’t Raphael, she could tell- it was someone new, someone snapping at the bit to play with their new toys, their new powers, their crackling divinity. Azirafell prayed, Please, Lord, let them kill me swiftly for my sins, or let me live to carry it out myself. 

She had suffered enough. She had fallen, her divinity burned itself out of her- one cell at a time. Hell was unkind, it would freeze you to a popsicle or burn you to a black smear on the ground. And it was filled with demons- enraged, terrified, lost, violent demons, who want nothing more than to consume and flay and corrupt and beg. 

She had her scars, well enough. 

She had suffered enough. 

**_who wouldn’t spare the rod_ **

Or, perhaps, God decided that she hadn’t yet- like a violin being plucked, a note rang out and the was flung from the tree, flung to the ground burning and writhing with a not unfamiliar pain. 

_Demon. Temptress of Eden. You dare to remain on the Lord’s earth?_

The angel’s voice wasn’t something heard, but something felt- something seared into the back of your mind like hot wasabi, unable to be forgotten. She probably would have been in pain, from hearing that voice, but there was a hole burned clear through her wing. Her right arm had flown back as she tumbled from the branches, trying to cushion her fall. It crunched with a sickening note, throbbing for a moment- an eternity long, excruciating moment- before going numb. She would have been scared by that if she had any hope of living to see the next sunrise. 

“I-I was told-“ _Crackle. Crack._ She made the mistake of trying to get up, she quickly paid the price. The angel, towering above her, attacking her mind with painful static, shot another beam of divine Grace at her, this time burning a rather large hole into her left thigh. There was no attempt to lessen her fall, not this time. 

_This was for fun, wasn’t it. For sport_. 

If the angel wanted to smite Azirafell- which, in all honesty, Azirafell understood- she’d be a neat pile of ashes, a demonic shell to be scattered to the winds. But no, she was being crippled, damn near tortured. Please, she begged the God who no longer cared to respond. _Please, just end this._

_Demon of the Desert, I’ll be back for you._

**_never for me_ **

With a clap of something too maniacal to be thunder, the awe-some form was gone, leaving an afterimage in Azirafell’s eyes. She was alone, sprawled across the desert. Immobile. To wait and fear the return of an angel, who would toy with her more. See how many bones she could break, see how many times it took a shock of Grace to burn her wings clear off. 

They’ll be back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crusty, right?


	3. screaming the name of a foreigner’s god

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Raphael tries to heal the battered demon, but that isn’t as easy as she hoped.

It hurt, it _really fucking hurt_ every inch of her battered body, but Azirafell managed to drag herself to the shade of the tree. She waited right there- there was no point in hiding. If that angel wished to find her, to toy with her more, she was too weak to fight back and in too much pain to care. She welcomed death- which is why she was almost glad to feel a familiar spark of divinity, this one ever so slightly more known. 

“Raphael?”

“Azzzzirafell! Fancy seeing you here.”

“Quite.” Her tone was clipped, like one you might use for a secretary who ignored your phone call one-too-many times. “I suppose you’re here to finish the job.”

“What job, dem- oh- wait, shit- you’re injured.”

“Quite.” Raphael took a step forwards, a hand reaching out to check her face. Flinching, Azirafell closed her eyes. Distantly, she thanked God for granting her this last mercy- Raphael would be quick, at least. Painless. They weren’t friends by any stretch of the imagination, but Raphael didn’t seem the type to indulge in the suffering of another, even if that other was a demon. She would be merciful- perhaps, to a healer such as herself, she wouldn’t see it as killing at all, rather putting an animal out of it’s misery.

Raphael’s brow furrowed- nobody flinched away from a healer. Plaintively- “Azzzzira, come now, you needen’t close your eyes from me-“

Azirafell nodded, opening her eyes. A mask of grim acceptence settling over her features. Anything to pacify the archangel, anything to make what was about to happen easier. “Alright-“ in Hell, they wanted her to watch, sometimes, as well. At least this way, she got one last look up at the sky. Raphael looked down at her, concern written clearly on her face. 

“Azirafell, your hand… your wrist, it’s shattered- here-“ She reached out to grab it, but something in her snapped and Azirafell pulled it away from her, clenching her broken hand to her chest and bunching her eyes shut and gritting out “ _Just fucking do it already!”_

The angel was taken aback- “Do what? I can’t do it without the inured hand-“ 

“ _Stop hurting me, please!_ Just do it- _smite_ me, or _kill_ me, or whatever you want to do to me- just please, please just do it already! I can’t take any more pain, please, please- I’ll beg you for it, is that what you want? I’ll- Please, Raphael, kill me. Swiftly. Please.” She was fully sobbing now, curled in on herself in a way that couldn’t have possibly felt good on her battered wings-

“Azirafell, hey, I’m not going to hurt you, I’m an angel-“ A louder sob at that, which is something Raphael would unpack later. She didn’t know what else to do, no one had ever rejected treatment like this, so she did the only thing she could think to do. Willing her hand to be cool as water and soothing as a mother’s voice, she trailed her fingertips over Azirafell’s forehead. “You feel safe, here, nothing will hurt you, you can be calm. And you will feel no pain.” The demon stilled at her words (Imbued with magic, no doubt), letting herself slink down in semi-consciousness, safely cradled in the angel’s arms. 

She was in so much pain. Raphael let herself feel the demon’s pain, let it wash over her like a tide of bleach. How could someone cause a relatively benevolent being such as her this misery? She was a healer, she healed, she shook the pain off and focused on the shivering demon in her embrace. “It’s alright, demon. It’s all alright.” 

She ran her hand delicately- so delicately, Azirafell couldn’t find it within herself to flinch away, over her shattered wrist, telling the bones to knit themselves back together, the muscles to reform, the skin to seal up. Azirafell looked to her newly not-broken wrist, then up at her with wide, disbelieving eyes. “You…” 

“Shhh, demon. Just rest.” Logically, Raphael knew Azirafell couldn’t be in that much pain, she took measures to leech the pain from her body before attempting to force bone and sinews back together, but she was still worried that the demon was uncomfortable. With a flutter of her fingers. Azirafell was laying on a palette of soft furs with her head propped up on the angel’s lap, with a cool towel across her forehead. “Just rest, now.” Next, a gentle trace around the massive burn on her thigh, telling the skin it wouldn’t dare scar up. The healing process wouldn’t be painful, but it certainly wouldn’t feel pleasant- Azirafell balled up a tight fist until Raphael’s soft hand slipped into her own. By then, the skin had almost finished knitting itself back together, the burn crusting over and fading back to pink skin, fragile and tender, but whole again. 

“Rap-Raphael...” Her voice trailed off again, going weak and raspy. The angel could feel fear and acceptance and hope, however small it may be. 

“Shush, demon, just... try and relax, yeah?” She whispered in her softest voice, absentmindedly brushing back a curl, messy and dried with crusted blood. Who could do this to such a... gentle creature as Azirafell? She had bright eyes and loved the cups of spiced grain alcohol and smoked meat from Adam’s hidden reserves. She was good at weaving and had the softest, saddest voice Raphael had ever heard on that one occasion she had been graced enough to hear her sing, back on a wall high above the trials and tribulations of humanity all those years ago. Azirafell was a demon, yes... but she was a good soul. And she had been so badly hurt, her bones broken and skin torn and joints sticking out at all different, messy angles. It made something clench inside her heart, angry and tender all at the same time, making her feel laid bare. 

“Raphael-“ She said with more conviction. “You... why?” She was met with the gentlest of smiles, a brush of cool fingertips against her searing forehead. 

“Shush, dear. Demon. You don’t deserve to be hurt anymore.” A pained whine. 

“B-but-“ 

“No buts, Azira. Azirafell. Now,” she asserted, shifting to sit up more and dab at the blood speckling her too-pale form with a damp cloth, “If you’d like to talk more about this, we can when you’re feeling better. Just... you’re safe now, dear. Demon.” 

That seemed to settle her a bit, or at least make her muscles un-tense. “I... water?” Suddenly, Raphael was holding a cup of cold water, pressing it gently to the demon’s lips, tipping it into her mouth. “Azira, you’re in no pain, I hope?” The demon made a positive murmur, pulling away from the now-empty clay mug. “If you’ll allow it, I’d like to put you to sleep... just until I can finish healing your wounds. I... I don’t want you to hurt anymore.” Azira looked up at her, clearly terrified. “I swear to you, I’ll wake you up as soon as you’re okay, and you’ll feel no pain- I just, I promise, demon-“

“Okay.” She settled back onto the angel’s lap, shifting a bit on the furs before letting her eyes drift fully closed. “It’s okay-“ she coughed, a ragged, wretched sound that made Raphael’s chest feel cold, drawing her hand away from her mouth slick with black blood. 

The healer pressed a chaste kiss to her temple- technically, she could heal her without even touching her, but she needed to do something to quiet the snarling animal inside of her. She saw her magics take effect, the looseness of her shoulders, the way her arm relaxed to her side and her dark eyes fluttered closed. “What’s okay, dear?” She asked, not at all expecting an answer. 

“‘f you don’t wake me up,” she muttered out, before her head drooped to the side and she succumbed to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter mentions Azira cutting her wrist open, but it’s a magic thing, not a self-harm thing. I hope you like this chapter!


	4. the purest expression of grief

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Azirafell is healed a little bit more.

**_still my heart is heavy_ **

Azirafell woke with a start, worrying the angel who had been sitting vigil over her since she finished healing her wounds. “Shit- I- You-“ She stuttered out between ragged breaths. 

“Hey, dear-demon, deep breaths for me, yeah? You’re alright.” She pressed a mug of something warm and spiced into Azira’s hands. “You gave me quite the scare.”

“B-But, I was- you shouldn’t’ve-“ That hand was back, stroking through her now clean hair. 

“Clemency alone makes us equal to God, Azirafell.” The demon took a break from looking hurt to make a puzzled hmpf? Raphael sighed. “It’s a quote, demon, just... Hasn’t been said yet. I dunno. Felt right.”

“I thought... why didn’t you kill me?”

The question hurt Raphael to her core- how could she hurt such a- “Azira, demon, I... You don’t deserve to be hurt anymore.” 

Snort. “That’s not what that other angel thought. I think she had fun with the whole thing, you know. Less smite-y, more... I dunno. Torture-y? Is that a thing?” Raphael went out to grasp her newly-healed wrist, remembering a split-second too late that it might still be a bit sore after the whole being-shattered thing, but the demon didn’t show too much pain. “You’re an angel. I thought you came to finish the job.”

“Azira, I’m not going to-“

It was as if the demon didn’t even hear her, pressing on, saying- “The best part is, Raphael, I was relieved when I thought it was you, who had come to finish me off- because at least you’d do it quickly, you wouldn’t take pleasure in-“ Whatever Azira wanted to say was cut off by a firm hug- bruised-ribs-be-damned. 

“Azirafell. Listen to me. I will never hurt you. You are a demon, but you’ve paid your sentence, and I will never, ever, hurt you. Okay?”

She felt her tunic getting damp with tears, but made no move to stop it, rather placing her hand on the demon’s back and letting her cry. 

_**with the hate of some other man’s beliefs** _

“I’m sure this is terribly forwards, but...” The angel leaned forwards and, quickly, before nerves or God could stop her, she pressed a searing kiss to the place between Azira’s temple and ear, the same space which held her snake markings. The kiss shined gold, burning for a split-second before turning black and melting into Azira’s skin. “There. You have my protection. The other angels will have a harder time finding you, hurting you. I’ll know, if-” She looked up at her, puzzled. 

“Y-You-“

Sigh. “I know I should have asked first, I just-“ 

Azira’s response was quick, she took Raphael’s left wrist and pressed a suspiciously sharp fingernail to it, cutting down before slitting open her own wrist. The angel hissed a bit at the pain, but made no move to stop her. This seems important. She pressed their bloodied wrists together, and Raphael let out a keening sound as she felt the demon’s essence mix with her own- This was blood magic, the oldest and most powerful short of the will of God- back in her day, Raphael had bled the earliest stars into existence. She felt that within her now, the burst of a thousand small nebulas, and let the demon finish the ritual. Azira pulled her wrist away and pressed her lips to Raphael’s wound, licking up the blood and healing her, leaving a pink scar. 

“There. Now, we’re even.” The angel smiled, stroking a hand through her now immaculately clean hair. “I’d like to go back to sleep, if that’s alright?” She didn’t wait for an answer before falling back into the makeshift bed, safe in the knowledge that Raphael would be there to fight of the angels that came her way. 

—-

Azirafell awoke alone two days later, her body feeling more stiff from disuse than sore from her wounds. She could still feel the tingle of the kiss, pressed sharply in a mirror of Raphael’s own mark. Embarrassed, she traced reverently over the now-healed scar on her wrist- it was faded by now, but would never fully go away. No, demons bore their scars proudly- she could feel Raphael, even though she was a thousand miles away, she could feel their bond. 

Deftly wrapped with pristine cloth was a bit of cured meat and cheese, with a single dried, pressed flower laid atop it. It was a lily, something Azira _knew_ without knowing how she knew it. 

“Huh. What a curious angel, indeed.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you enjoyed the last chapter, it’s my personal favorite. I do plan on adding more to this au, so thats cool I guess. Thanks for reading :)

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked that, I’ve finished the work already so I’m posting a chapter a day. I will probably continue this- also comments are my lifeblood so please.


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